


come and find me when you're dead

by scorpiod



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Revenge, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Yuletide Treat, mostly - Freeform, noncon kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: This will ruin them both.OR, the confrontation at the cemetery goes slightly differently.





	come and find me when you're dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delina/gifts).



> I loved all your prompts, but this one in particular caught my eye. I hope it's to your liking and happy yuletide!
> 
> Beta'ed by my lovely friend, H.

_Mary_.

It's Jonathan’s smooth voice that rouses her out of her grave, the first thing she hears when she wakes in her coffin. 

_Mary_ , soft at first, but like a whisper in her ear. A _dream_ , she tells herself, or a nightmare, she is having a nightmare, that's what must have happened, she had a nightmare about finding Johnathan shambling towards her like the dead at the dock and turning into a monster and she is still having a nightmare.

But the voice of her brother becomes louder, loud as a drum, louder than her dead heart, _Mary Mary Mary_ , until its the only thing she can hear, until she starts screaming, pounding and clawing at the wood in front of her. The wood feels very solid. It feels very real, not dreamlike at all. 

No one comes. There is no bell for her to ring. No one comes to dig her out of her grave. Not even her brother. 

Mary claws her way out, eventually, not knowing how long she's been underground, how long since her death. She claws her way through the wood, with new teeth and new nails, tearing her funeral dress, bleeding under her nails, choking on earth. She claws her way out and rips open the throat of the kindly groundskeeper that comes to see who is rising from the grave. Jonathan's voice haunts her the whole time, _Mary Mary my beloved Mary._

The nightmare never ends.

*

Jonathan bests her in combat.

It's no surprise. He was always the best at anything he tried, ever the star pupil.

But perhaps she let him win. Mary is tired of fighting. She wants to wake up now. She hands the wooden cross to him, imploring him with her red eyes.

“Do it, brother. Free me of this endless night.”

She expects him to follow through—that's what he said, is it not? _I'll destroy you_ , when she goaded him with their mother's death. 

Jonathan—dear, sweet, bloody, all knowing Jonathan—shakes his head. He drops the broken cross to the ground. 

“No,” he says, firmly. He reminds her of their father then—strong minded, firm, and absolute in his will. “Mary, I won't do this. I won't take your life again.”

(in her dreams, it's always the same—her brother, at the edge of the dock, walking towards her, and in the darkness he looks like an angel, here to answer her prayers, here to be a family again; she's suffered so much and all she wanted was her brother back)

“Then I'll take yours,” she snarls, and leaps upon him. 

He falls to the ground without a fight, flat on his back, and Mary goes for his throat, sinking her fangs into him, the way he did to her on the dock. His blood is loud in her veins, and for a sweet moment, she is a lost in a haze of red. The taste of his blood makes her insides sing with pleasure, her body shudder with newfound dark ecstasy, until once again, she begins to hear his voice, above the cacophony of everything else, _Mary Mary I'm sorry the hunger this horror Mary forgive me_.

(in her dreams, it's always the same: Jonathan always rips out her throat in a frenzy, and she is always reaching out for him and it is always too late)

She can't even rip his throat out in peace—Jonathan lives inside her.

Mary pulls away from him, his blood running down her chin, and her hand over his heart. She could reach into his rib cage, crack the bones and pull it out. 

“Does that satisfy you?” he asks, in a daze, weakened now, head lolling, his dark eyes searching for her within the red of her monster visage. The wounds she made are healing slowly and there is no fresh blood to hasten the process, with their mother dead a few feet away and the vicar's throat torn out in the battle. She could kill him, right now. She can end this. 

“No. You have to kill me,” she says. “You _have_ to. Or I'll kill you. I'll kill your friends, your patients, our butler. I'll kill everyone you know. Mother was only the beginning.”

Jonathan shakes his head like he doesn't believe her. “No, Mary—”

She expects— _she wants_ —Jonathan to fight her, rip her off him. To show her what a monster he is, what he's made them both into, but he lies there, limp, letting Mary extract her pound of flesh and no, _no_ , that simply won't do. 

Her claws dig into the soft meat of his throat then, into the open wounds, tearing the holes wider. It feels good, to feel the skin give under her, to hear him gasp in pain. It feels good to squeeze his throat and choke the air out of his lungs.

“Johnny—”

“I'm so sorry,” he says again.

“No,” she shakes him, still grabbing his throat. With another hand, she presses his wrist down flat on the graveyard earth . “I will not tolerate your useless apologies.”

“Indeed they are quite useless,” he says, nodding his acquiescence. “But I won't kill you, Mary. You're my last relative, living or not. You're just going to have to kill me, or let me help.”

“How dare you,” she snarls in his face. 

“Yes, how dare I,” he says dryly, “offer to help you, Mary. My maker—I hear his voice in my head as well. Not always but you could learn to block me out. I could learn to to keep my thoughts from you. My abandonment of you was a mistake unwillingly made.”

She shakes her head— _it's not the same_ , she thinks, unwilling, _unable_ to let go of her anger, as if she can look at Jonathan’s face and see anything a monster, and a mirror to her own monstrosity. 

“I know other vampires, Mary—you must know that, if you've followed me. Hate me if you will, but you don't need to be alone. We can help you, I can help—”

“You want to help me, Jonathan?” she asks, her voice low with soft spoken anger. “Now, after all you've done?” She glances over at their mother’s corpse. “All I've done?”

“I will find a cure,” he claims, there he goes again—like he can fix anything, just as long as he works hard enough, clinging to his role of heroic doctor even as he takes life. “I can cure us both, we don't have to live like this for—”

Mary leans down and shushes her brother with a kiss. 

She's kissed her brother’s lips before, as a child, as a woman, a simple goodbye kiss, chaste and delicate. This isn't anything like that. This is not a sisterly kiss. It's not sweet. It's not even a romantic one, between lovers, but something altogether vicious. 

Jonathan’s mouth opens wide beneath her, as if to gasp out in shock, but it only allows her to kiss harder, deeper, swallowing his cries into her, and Mary takes and takes and takes. His body goes slack under her, and she bites down on his bottom lip, moaning at the bloom of his blood in her mouth once more.

It's a surprise when his fangs cut into her tongue, deliberately so, if with intent or on some animal instinct, bleeding into his mouth. Jonathan makes a strange, strangled sound beneath her. 

She meant only to punish him. To hurt him. She didn't expect to enjoy this—having her older brother at her mercy. She must be truly dead. 

Jonathan tastes of stolen blood, ashes, and like someone's last breath. Hers, perhaps, the first life he took. No trace of the dutiful, devoted scientist now, all poison and teeth. 

_This will put an end to it_ , she thinks. This will ruin them both. It must. 

He, at last, and far too late for it to matter, shoves her off him. Mary goes flying through the air, her back hitting a tombstone with a hard crack—she heals, of course, almost immediately but for a moment her mind is blinded by pain, then disoriented, vision whited out. 

When she gains back her vision, Jonathan is wiping his mouth, as if revolted, their blood slick on his lips, then on the back of his hand.

“ _Mary_ ,” he says, in that awful, admonishing tone, so reminiscent of Father. He looks at her like he's never seen her before in his life, like she's the _betrayer_ here. It's so absurd she starts laughing, like a madwoman. Mad as a hatter. Mad as a god. 

“Oh, was it that bad?” she asks, fingers to her lips. Their blood had mingled together over her mouth and tongue. “As bad as murdering your sister? Confess to me, dear Jonathan—I think you enjoyed that a little.”

“I'm your _brother_ ,” he spits out.

“I haven't forgotten,” she says icily. “I am as you made me. It's your blood in my veins.”

She rises up to her feet and Jonathan takes a step back. There's fear in his eyes and it gives her a dark thrill. 

“Mary, what happened to you?”

Rage flares into her, that hot ugly thing that's been growing inside her since she woke in her grave. She can't see anything but the red of her eyes. Jonathan’s heart pounds as she all but flies over to him and shoves him against a tree. 

“You happened to me, Jonathan. _You_ did.”

She kisses him again—briefly, but she makes sure he feels it, the bite of her teeth, the sting of her mouth, the hard press of lips. He pushes her away immediately this time, hands on her shoulder and Mary allows it, for now. 

Instead, she cups his face in her hands, tilting his head down to her, forcing him to look at her, to regard her distorted face, her pale figure, her bloodied mouth. _Admire your ilk_. “You're already inside me, Jonathan. In such a wicked, awful way. So I want you to feel me with you, _on you_ , the way I am forced to feel you.”

She doesn't want to kill him anymore—perhaps later, she will, overcome with madness, drowning in blood and his voice in her head, calling out to her, for her—but for now, she's content to leave him this to remember her by. 

Something to torture him as he tortures her. 

She leaves Jonathan there, slumping down against the tree, haunted and bleeding, saying nothing. He doesn't follow after her.


End file.
